The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  ‘There’s no telling what damage a sharp-eyed girl could do. So what would happen if I let you go? Would you run to your hunters and tell them how to dig up my crops?’

  ‘The hunters hate me almost as much as they hate you.’

  ‘What lies,’ Wislaw sniggered. ‘Look,’ he grabbed Iwa’s wrist and twisted it savagely, ‘see the clan marks borne upon her arms?’

  ‘She’d make an excellent spy,’ Grunmir agreed. ‘Who would suspect her?’

  ‘Who’d trust her with such a mission?’ Alia mocked. ‘A mere chit of a girl who couldn’t even pick berries without running off to play childish games. Do you think anyone would listen to her?’

  ‘They might,’ Krol Gawel said, ‘if they were desperate. Sometimes victory may hang on the most slender of hopes, the merest scraps of information. Many’s the time before now when I’ve had to trust even my life to such slender means.’

  Alia had come down to stand by the krol, the wine jug ready in her hands. She no longer wore the clan marks. Her wrists were bound with a silver bracelet where the runes should have been. ‘She’s nothing to the clan; an outsider, never to be trusted. She killed her mother by her birth. We should have cast her body on the mountainside for the snows to take.’

  There was a long silence. All eyes watched the krol, but he didn’t move. ‘Once I had such vision,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I believed that we could be something more than woyaks, built for war and easy plunder.’ Krol Gawel put his hand into the sack again and felt the seeds run against his skin. ‘One grows tired of war and slaughter, and the simple joys of hearth and home beckon. Once I was young and felt I could take on the whole world, the gods if need be. Now I’ve had my fill of battle.’

  ‘We’ll plant your grain,’ Grunmir said. ‘There will be wheat and barley too, whatever the hunters might do.’

  But the krol was lost, his eyes distant as he let the last of the seeds fall between his fingers. ‘I used to pity the farmers, even as we slaughtered them, burnt down their houses and left their carcasses to rot in the fields. My father had land far up north, good pastures and plough land too. There I should have stayed, but my heart was always drawn to the sea. I was young and maybe I could have lived on the shifting tides back then; but a man wearies of such things. We are not built for endless wandering, but must put down roots, to feel the earth of our ancestors beneath our feet.’

  ‘Many men have lost their birthright,’ Grunmir said softly.

  The krol looked up at him. ‘Yes, and others have simply given it away.’ Krol Gawel paused and looked at Grunmir, an uneasy silence growing between them.

  ‘Fate does not always chart an easy course, lord krol,’ Wislaw interrupted, ‘least of all for those who are chosen for glory,’ he continued, oblivious to Grunmir’s look of disdain; even Alia bowed down as if examining the floor. ‘Perhaps the gods like to toy with those whom they mark out for eminence. Adversity is often the making of greatness. It is there that we find true courage.’

  ‘We could have it all,’ the krol said as he turned away. ‘Don’t you understand we could carve out a kingdom, here? I would have a rampart built and a great feasting hall. What does Duke Stanislaw mean to us? Let the Polish lords cling to their dung-crested cities and feast in their smoke-ridden halls. We could have a kingdom far mightier than any the world has ever seen. So where are the hunters?’ Krol Gawel waved in Iwa’s direction. ‘Tell me where they are hiding and I will spare your life. Who knows, we might even give you to one of my woyaks and make you a lady like Alia here.’

  ‘They have run into the mountains and the woods.’ The words flew from her mouth so quickly that Iwa could hardly quell them. ‘Where none can find them. No one knows where they are, women were never allowed to follow the sacred paths. They were given to the hunters by Karnobog at the beginning of all things.’

  ‘And the hunters we have in the ships?’ There was a hard edge to the krol’s words, a hint of madness that lurked beneath his voice, and Iwa was too scared to even think of a lie. ‘The hunters are broken; they’ve gone off to join other clans, or wander the mountains like hermits.’

  ‘Hermits,’ the krol said. ‘So who are these people who dare to raid my camp? Tell me, are they in league with the demons of the night?’

  ‘They’re scattered and leaderless, and they haven’t any pact with any demons.’

  ‘Such lies,’ the krol smiled, ‘from such an innocent-looking girl. It’s a pity that your heart is turned against me, I’d have found a great use for you.’

  ‘Give her over to me,’ Wislaw said. ‘We can’t trust her, but she may be of much use still.’

  ‘No,’ Iwa looked pleadingly at Grunmir, ‘you have to leave the forest, before your doom falls upon you.’

  ‘As if she knows anything,’ Alia scoffed, as she poured out another cup of wine. ‘Her words are as empty as a broken pot and just as useless. I’d put her to scrubbing the floors – she can earn her keep at least.’

  ‘Let me go,’ Iwa pleaded. ‘Let me take my father out of here and I’ll tell you everything. After that I’ll walk right out of the camp and never see any of you ever again.’

  Slowly the krol turned away from the sacks and stood before her. Then he began to laugh. ‘See how she treats me, this mud-soaked stripling? Am I not krol, do I not command? Four hundred armed woyaks stand as my ship guard, with more who’ll follow me gladly to death and, when I offer to make her a lady in my court, what does she do? Is she grateful, does she bow down at my feet in supplication?’ Then he stopped laughing. Once again the ache was upon him, the air closing about, thick with the stench of sweat and herbs. If only he could think properly. ‘Go to the prison hut…’ At the krol’s words, Grunmir began speaking softly to the woyak at his side. ‘…Bring the hand of the man who is bound there.’

  ‘No!’ Iwa tried to run but the woyaks forced her to her knees. ‘Please!’ she cried as she tried to conjure the lies that would get her out of this. And, all the while, she could hear the manikin’s laughter deep inside her head. ‘I’ll tell you everything, anything; just leave my father alone.’

  ‘More lies,’ Alia laughed. ‘The girl knows nothing, can’t you see that? Why not just throw her out of the camp, and her father too. Good riddance, and there’d be less mouths to feed.’

  ‘Don’t hurt my father.’ Iwa looked round at the impassive faces of the woyaks. ‘I don’t know anything; the clan have cast me out. Alia is right, they’d never trust me with anything, they didn’t even want…’ She drew back, confused. She’d almost told them about Katchka’s plan. Maybe Alia has told them already, she thought. But then the old woman was alive, so Alia must have kept quiet about the poisoned mushrooms. ‘…Me in their ship,’ she corrected herself. That was probably true. None of them would shed a tear if I didn’t come back, except for Katchka, and that would have been more to do with not getting those stupid mushrooms than anything to do with me.

  In desperation she glanced round. At least Grunmir hadn’t moved, despite the krol’s command. ‘Perhaps it would be better to do as Alia suggests,’ he said. ‘She understands these people, knows their ways. Torture one and the rest withdraw. Getting anything from them is an impossible task.’

  Except where the likes of her are concerned. Iwa couldn’t help but throw Alia a hateful glance. Katchka was right about you.

  ‘Give them both to the forest,’ Grunmir continued, ‘and be rid of them.’

  ‘Let us not be too hasty,’ Wislaw replied. ‘Loosening that tongue of hers might prove instructive yet. It would be a mistake to give up such an opportunity so readily.’

  Alia opened her mouth, but Iwa couldn’t hear the words. All the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as, in the distance, she heard the crackle of ancient magic. There it was again, a low, barely audible throb. Alia closed her mouth but the sound continued.

  ‘It’s here,’ Krol Gawel said softly, his eyes filling with horror. In an instant Grunmir was at the door, Fang ready in his ha
nd. The woyaks at the entrance retreated back into the ship, hands trembling as they readied their spears. Iwa was flung to the ground as the woyaks who’d held her reached for their weapons. Nobody moved, their breath misting shakily in the air as all eyes turned to the doorway. There it was again, a howl of magic, and then an echo. Again the magic howled, closer this time and, within the room, something answered its call. Quickly, Iwa looked around. Wislaw too must have felt terror, because the final vestiges of the doll’s power snapped away from her. She was free at last, a thousand woyak chains would have been better than to have that thing in her mind. All eyes were on the door, as if no one had heard that crackle of magic close by. Not even Wislaw appeared to notice.

  Then the room exploded into movement, woyaks running for their shields, Grunmir screaming out his orders as Wislaw slunk into the shadows, his voice lost amid the chaos. There was a shimmer of sound as the boy helped Krol Gawel with his armour, so swiftly that the inner padding was almost on before the woyaks had time to bring out his scale mail.

  From out of the shadows there was another crackle of power. A few boxes lay scattered on the floor behind the chair and, as Iwa peered closer, she saw a strange blue-green stone. In the centre there was something that looked like the semblance of a face, the eyes closed as if asleep. With nobody paying her any heed Iwa scrabbled behind the chair. She could see the stone closely now, the smooth features of a young man marked clearly on its surface, his skin glowing as if anointed with oil. In the distance there was a throb of magic and suddenly the eyes opened. Instinctively Iwa drew back, but when she looked again there was no sign of the face.

  Outside, the sound of the magic swelled as the woyaks ran for their weapons. ‘Bring the girl,’ Krol Gawel commanded, ‘and guard her well.’

  ‘To arms, you fools!’ Grunmir yelled. ‘Get the archers on the ramparts, quickly! Burn the men out of their ships if you have to, but get those archers on the wall!’ Without waiting, he charged out into the dark, the woyaks following uncertainly behind. Only Alia hung back, caught in a soundless scream as she retreated into the gloom.

  Outside, all was chaos. Iwa was dragged down the steps so fast that her knees scraped along the wood. Woyaks ran everywhere, armoured shadows scurrying in the night. Someone ran into a brazier: hot coals scattered across the ground, the flames flecking over the grass as a pile of furs caught light. Not that anyone seemed to notice; they all appeared to be screaming. Iwa raised her hands to her ears in a desperate attempt to drown out the sound as everything dissolved into a confused blur. ‘Gather round and fight, you dogs!’ Grunmir screamed. A few woyaks rallied to his call and formed up around him. But his words had little impact on the other woyaks, who turned tail and ran, their shields scattering across the ground.

  None wanted to go near the ramparts, casting hasty glances to the imagined safety of their ships. After so many untroubled nights they’d begun to hope that the curse had lifted and the demon had returned to whatever place it had come from. Now the evil had returned and that brief flicker of hope had been extinguished.

  Wislaw bowed before the statue of Piórun, his voice trembling as he summoned what magic he might. But his words were lost in fire and confusion. Even so, Iwa could feel his panic, the trembling of his hands and lips as he tried to raise a paean to the thunder god. Around him some of the woyaks stood, their eyes trained on the row of skulls, each one praying that the magic might hold.

  Then, striding through the dark and the smoke, she saw the krol; the flames reflecting across his battle helm as his leopard cloak fluttered behind him. Four woyaks walked with him, old trusted men, their armour battered and scarred as, above them, the battle standard flapped like a reed caught in the current. In the distance the club-footed boy limped as he struggled with the shield.

  Until then Iwa hadn’t understood why the woyaks followed their krol: Grunmir had always seemed the more natural choice. He was taller and had always seemed good at making others obey him gladly. Now Krol Gawel stopped before them, his breath misting as if, under that great helm, he breathed fire. He was like the trapped fox and death held no terror for him. Before him the men scurried, spears and shields clattering. But, even in his fury, there was a calmness about him, like the sweet smell of the air before the thunderclap. Around them the sound of the craft rose, hard as iron. Iwa winced as the hands that gripped her tightened with fear. But the krol came forward, a fluidity in his movements, a grace about him despite all the armour and the heavy battle helm.

  ‘Show yourself, demon!’ the krol yelled. ‘I challenge you!’ There was another blast of sound, like a wolf caught in the grip of madness. Iwa turned to the black ship. On either side of the steps a woyak stood; each carrying an iron horn twisted high above their heads, so large that the end had to be fixed to the ground with a stake or else the men would never have been able to hold the instruments aloft. Even amid all the clatter, she had to stop and stare: the ends of the trumpets were carved in the shape of wolves so that the sound bellowed from their iron snarling fangs.

  ‘Hear my wolf call and despair!’ the krol yelled as he looked to his men. Once more the horns sounded and then fell quiet as the woyaks regained their breath. The krol unsheathed his sword, circling the great blade slowly.

  Around them the sound of Bethrayal undulated, the noise pulsing through the night, subsiding almost to a murmur before it whipped up once more, so loud that it seemed to snake round the krol’s armour, bouncing from the sides of his battle helm.

  ‘Come and face me if you dare!’ Krol Gawel said, froth forming across his lips in fury as the flames reflected across the blade of his great sword. Some of the woyaks were quick to gather round him, their hearts filled with the memory of battle and past glory. Even in the dark they recognised that blade. Had they ever had cause to doubt the battle craft of the one who wielded it? Hadn’t they faced hardships and dangers before? Hadn’t the krol always been there in the heat of the battle? And, even if they were to die, what better way than under the gaze of their krol? Before the camp fires had burned the night, now their light dripped across the blade, illuminating the woven pattern of the steel and the tempered edge. But it would take more than battle craft to get them out of this.

  ‘No, my krol.’ Grunmir had come up beside them. ‘You must not throw your life away; no blade can touch that thing.’ But the krol took no notice as he began to move forward. Grunmir grabbed his arm. ‘Not even your sword.’

  ‘I am the krol,’ Gawel replied, his voice dropped to a whispered growl. ‘What happens here is my responsibility and mine alone. If I am to die then let it be here before the eyes of my woyaks and with their battle cries burning through my ears.’

  The wind picked up and moaned, soft and hollow through the wolf-head horns as their iron tongues lapped around their fangs. From the statue Wislaw yelled and pointed to the river. ‘Over there!’ he screamed. Breath held, Iwa followed the line of his finger, her eyes ready to look away.

  At first she could see nothing, except for the desolate swell of the river and the dark line of the trees, like pitch against the night sky. Then, across the water, the first tendrils of mist swirled. By now the noise had risen as the mist began to thicken and take shape, the water boiling below. Suddenly the whole camp fell silent as the creature moved forward.

  Bethrayal had gained power, because now she could clearly make out the shape of his feet and the outline of his body; there was even the semblance of a face ghosted across the dark. For the first time she noticed a smell, like rotten fish. ‘Remember me to your gods,’ Krol Gawel said as he leapt forward. The club-footed boy began to follow, dragging the shield with him, but Grunmir caught his arm. ‘This is something the krol has to face alone, boy,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the river. ‘Nothing made of man will help him now.’

  Before the boy had time to react, there was a crack as if the air had been torn apart. The waters boiled as the flames flickered in their skulls and the wind began to howl. An explosion rent the ai
r as Lord Bethrayal crashed into the barrier. Sparks snarled through the night as the form howled with rage and agony, his voice twisting cold and inhuman above the crack of magic.

  On the other side the krol stood impassive, his sword drawn. Now his headache had gone, replaced by the cold certainty of battle. There was nothing else, only the faint beat of his heart as he regarded the enemy before him.

  ‘See, my barrier holds!’ Wislaw yelled as the creature tumbled back. ‘My craft has beaten it.’ But the old priest had spoken too soon. As the waters boiled in fury, tendrils of smoke and flame reached out into the night and the form of Lord Bethrayal rose up once more. Again it tore at the barrier, the light crackling as sparks flew across the shore and the woyaks fled in terror. All except for the krol and Grunmir.

  ‘The demon has grown stronger!’ Grunmir yelled above the clamour. A woyak fled past, flinging away both spear and shield. Without a word Grunmir picked up the spear and hurled it at the creature. Iwa could almost make out the line of the barrier as it buckled against the weight. The air became hot and, as the spear flew through the night, the shaft burst into flames.

  ‘Remember me to the gods,’ Krol Gawel said as he raised his sword to his lips, ‘and may fortune grant you each a better fate.’ But, before he went, he paused and took something from around his neck; it was a gold ring that hung from a silver chain. ‘Perhaps I deserve no better,’ he said as he gave the ring over to Grunmir, who took it with a nod. ‘Take the men should I die. May the gods grant you a swift escape and, if by some chance or the malice of some god you have the occasion, give this to the duke and tell him of my death.’

  Maybe he said something else but his words were lost as, with another almighty howl, the figure of Lord Bethrayal flung itself against the barrier, the wooden posts splitting and the waters burning with fury. The reflected light rippled across the krol’s armour and the blade of his sword.